Fistful of Love
by allsafeandsound
Summary: **Spoilers for Dragon Age: Origins** How does it feel to be the mistress of the King? Neria Surana, Elfin Mage and Gray Warden, is about to find out. Read premise for more. Alistair/Surana with later Anders/Surana. Not sure how it'll end up...
1. Chapter 1

IMPORTANT: This contains spoilers to Dragon Age: Origins. The whole thing, even the short "Premise" bit, is a spoiler. If you don't want to be spoiled, then I suggest not reading it, though I hope you do read it eventually, because... well, hopefully it is awesome.

Premise: Okay, so after having to curb my desire to be kind of a bastard through the entire game due to Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana's constant interfering (they "do not approve" of everything fun hehe) I find out that if I do the merciful thing and let Loghain live (which, seriously, a pretty good case is presented for him in game, you have to admit) then Alistair will leave me. So, I have to kill Loghain, which I kind of liked, anyway. THEN it turns out that Alistair is all, "Oh we can't be together anyway, Elf. Grey Warden. Tainted blood. No heirs" (though suspiciously, he will marry a human Cousland...Alistair=secret elf hater?) and I had to convince the man to have an affair with me and just marry Anora for a child. Then, he is like, "Oh the poor queen..." And I thought...well gee, Alistair, it's not exactly going to be easy for me either.... And that is where this story comes in. How does it feel to be the mistress of the King? First he must sleep with Morrigan and then marry and bed Anora. He worries about humiliating her, but... what about the Grey Warden?

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age origins or Alistair. I used the suggested name for the female Elf Mage (because, honestly, I coudln't remember what I ended up naming my Elf. They referred to her as "warden" or "Grey Warden" so much in the game that that is what she is in my head).

Prelude: The Bed You Make

_"...you coulda made a safer bet_

_but what you break is what you get_

_you wake up in the bed you make_

_I think you made a big mistake_

_you own me_

_there's nothing you can do_

_you own me_

_you own me_

_lucky you..."_

- "Lucky You" by The National

This was the decision they had made. Him. Her. And a third.

Anora. Wife. Queen. And soon, perhaps, after tonight, a third title: Mother. The barer of his child. Alistair's child.

Neria Surana lay on her back, staring up at the stars, and tried to ignore the fierce burning ache in her throat and the bitter ball of nausea that had tied her stomach into knots for days. It was bad enough that she had shared him with Morrigan to save their lives, she had been fiercely jealous, true, but she had also been desperately afraid and willing to do anything. Alistair would never have let her kill the archdemon and give her life in the process and she couldn't imagine a world without him in it. Especially one in which Anora sat on the throne with no one to challenge her ruthless decisions.

Neria had been reacting on survival instinct that night and she had convinced Alistair to do the same. Her anxiety over losing him had overridden her jealousy. Well, that and the fact that, despite the woman's often caustic remarks, she loved Morrigan and thought of her as a close friend. These two things had kept her from wanting to burn them both alive with spell fire. Neria knew Morrigan well enough to know that, in her own way, she had made the offer, because she too, valued their friendship. Morrigan saw the world in very different terms than she, but Neria respected the woman's view points and opinions. Morrigan had seen a way to get what she wanted and a way to save her friend's life (possibly, the only friend the witch had ever had). It was as simple as that. No heartfelt confessions, no hidden desires for a night alone with the bastard prince... Neria did her best not to think of the child that Morrigan now carried as Alistair's, but as a creation of magic and ritual, a vessel for an ancient god.

She hoped and prayed that Morrigan knew what she was doing. Neria prayed to the Maker that in twenty years she wouldn't be facing down Alistair and Morrigan's child amongst a horde of darkspawn...if she lived that long...Neria sighed, but those were worries for another day...

The present, this night, was what weighed on her currently, and it was almost more than the tiny elf could bear. She had faced down bandits, darkspawn, demons, blood mages, and worse, but none of it had been harder than this. None of it had affected her as heavily as this night.

Alistair's wedding night.

It was hard to believe that only a month ago they had faced the Archdemon and triumphed. Everyone had survived. Neria had been presented to all of Ferelden as a hero and the driving force that ended the Blight and destroyed the Archdemon. Alistair had made good on the promise he had made her that day, before the Arls and citizens of Ferelden, giving the Mage's their freedom from the Templars. The Circle was theirs alone. He had made good on other promises, as well, seeing to it that the Dalish were given the respect they deserved for the aid they'd provided. He had begun making changes in the Alienage as well, and that night, after all the celebrating had died down, he had made good on his promise to love her.

Tears began to fall, making slow, wet tracks from the corners of her deep blue eyes, down her pale skin, and landing in the curve of her pointed ears. Neria clenched her teeth, not wanting to make a sound, les Leliana hear her and start worrying over her like a mother hen. She blinked rapidly, as she remembered how tenderly and fiercely Alistair had loved her that night, his deep brown eyes staring almost worshipfully into her own. Both of them had been almost giddy with relief and exhaustion. They had survived the fight with the Archdemon. Together. They'd come out on the other side and were grateful. They had laughed and explored each other's bodies in ways they hadn't been able to during those dark, hasty nights in camp, when worry that the others might hear and fear of the pressing battle had weighed on them.

Then, the very next day the wedding arrangements began and Neria had said a secret, heartfelt goodbye to Alistair, saying that she had made promises to the Circle to help them rebuild. That she had to escort Wynne back and help them sort things out in the tower. It was truth, mostly, but at the heart of it... she couldn't stand to be there when he said his vows to Anora. Couldn't stand the thought of the two of them pledging eternity to one another. The knowledge that they would share a bed, create a child. How was she to stand beside and watch it happen?

She couldn't. She wouldn't.

She was Neria Surana. Mage of the Circle. Gray Warden. She was...

...lying in the grass crying. Hopelessly in love with Alistair and heartbroken over it. She couldn't stay away from him, not forever, not even for long, hell, she was even on her way back to him now. He was more than just the man she loved; he was her companion, her partner. They had been through this hell together and come through it, because neither had given up on the other. She couldn't give up on him now. She would bare the pain of sharing him.

The only other option: a life without him, without his touch, was unbearable. Better she had died on top of Fort Drakon dealing the death blow to the Arch Demon, then to survive only to lose that which made life worth living.

Author's Notes:

1. I plan on making this a multi chapter story. I appreciate your taking the time to read it. It has been quite a long time since I have written any fan fiction… or written anything at all, really. Hopefully, the fact that I am rusty doesn't show too much. All comments, criticisms, or gifts of cheese welcome.

2. The story title (in case you are wondering) was inspired by the song:

Fistful of Love by Antony And The Johnsons

Lyrics:

I was lying in my bed last night staring

At a ceiling full of stars

When it suddenly hit me

I just have to let you know how I feel

We live together in a photograph of time

I look into your eyes

And the seas open up to me

I tell you I love you

And I always will

And I know you can't tell me

I know you can't tell me

So I'm left to pick up

The hints, the little symbols of your devotion

So I'm left to pick up

The hints, the little symbols of your devotion

And I feel your fists

And I know it's out of love

And I feel the whip

And I know it's out of love

And I feel your burning eyes burning holes

Straight through my heart

It's out of love

It's out of love

I accept and I collect upon my body

The memories of your devotion

I accept and I collect upon by body

The memories of your devotion

And I feel your fists

And I know it's out of love

And I feel the whip

And I know it's out of love

And I feel your burning eyes burning holes

Straight through my heart

It's out of love, ooh hoo

It's out of love

Give me a little bit serious love

Give me a little full love

Be full of love

Fists, fists, fists full of love..


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: After playing Dragon Age: Awakening... this story might get a little more complicated... with our protagonist heading to Vigil's Keep...and Anders.

**Chapter 2: The Knight Without Her**

_"But I believe that lovers should be tied together_

_And thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather_

_And left there to drown_

_Left there to drown in their innocence_

_But as for me, I'm coming to the final chapter_

_I read all of the pages and there's still no answer_

_Only all that was before I know must soon come after_

_That's the only way it can be_

_So I stand in the sun and I breathe with my lungs_

_Trying to spare myself the weight of the truth..."_

_- "A Perfect Sonnet" by Bright Eyes_

Alistair lie perfectly still, but for the beating of his heart and the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest. The air was cool, the fire had dimmed, but he didn't bother to leave the bed. Besides him the wrong woman slept peacefully. She was facing him, elegant hands clasped beneath her peach hued cheek. Her hair, usually tightly coiled in braids at her nape, hung loose, flowing all around her like a river of pale, gold silk. Alistair could not deny his new queen was a beauty and yet for all her perfection, she did not stir his heart.

_I wish Neria were here.._. He thought to himself, his gaze moving away from Anora's sleeping beauty to the ceiling above, _erm...well, not here exactly, but ah... here **instead **of Anora...not quite appropriate to have a third woman share your...wedding night. _Wedding night? Really? Him and Anora... Married. Husband and Wife. King and Queen. A soft groan escaped him. What in Andraste's name had Neria and Eamon been thinking when they'd suggested it? Having the woman you love tell you that you should marry another was heartbreaking to say the least. Later, after the Landsmeet, after he'd been made King, he had begun to see the truth he had long been denying.

He had to marry someone for the good of Ferelden. The Kingdom needed a rightful heir so that a situation like the one that bastard Loghain had created could be avoided. Neria could not be queen. She was, in almost every way, completely forbidden to him. A commoner, an Elf, a Mage of the Circle, a Gray Warden. I mean, really, the only way she could be less of an option were if she were, well...he had to think about that: made of cheese perhaps?

Alistair sighed, nobody tells the King what to do. Right. Everybody told the King what to do. He was surprised he didn't have advisers telling him the best way to clean himself after using the lavatory. It seemed all day long all he did was listen to people advise him on what action to take with some problem or another. He barely had time think an issue through, before someone else wanting something else was shuffled before him. Between some Arl requesting a favor or a Bann chirping about trade possibilities with the Dwarves, it was some Lady in Waiting of Anora's showing him fabrics to cover the chairs for the wedding and what colors she liked and...flowers. Roses.

Alistair had made one request, no roses. All the servants thought him ridiculously picky, he was sure of it. No roses in the wedding. He hadn't wanted to think of Neria...his rose in the dark times... while he married another. It hadn't seemed appropriate to have them in his fake wedding with his fake bride. Alright, he had to admit, it wasn't exactly fake. No, he was married and to Anora, real enough... but in his heart... it wasn't real.

Maker forgive him, in his heart he would always belong to Neria.

Anora hadn't been there, like she had. Anora had not been by his side after the death of Duncan and Cailan. Neria had rallied his spirit and his heart, had given him purpose, direction, sympathy, understanding. Her wide, innocent eyes, the way she blushed at his compliments, the sweet way they'd kissed... her first kiss, she'd said, in that soft, disparately husky voice of hers. It was soft, and sexy, like honey and chocolate being lapped from bare skin, so unexpected from the sheltered circle mage she appeared to be at first glance (and in most ways, was).

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Perhaps he could find her in the fade, join in her dreaming. He never remembered it, but she said that they had met in the Fade before. It was the only time in his life he wished to be a mage, wished he could remember his time dreaming. It was a moot point, however, for sleep alluded him. He tried counting sheep and when that didn't work he tried picturing Sten and counting how many cookies the Qunari could covertly eat. The big bugger thought nobody knew of his obsession for sweets. Neria really knew how to assemble an odd bunch of eccentrics, didn't she? Seeing a giant muscle of a man, wearing full plate, with a gigantic sword on his back, stealing cookies from overweight children was really... really ludicrous. I mean, how terrifying, right? That poor kid will probably never touch another sweet again...

Alistair sighed, a strange loopy sort of smile on his face, Nope, still not asleep... and now he was hungry to boot. He slid out of bed quietly as not to wake Anora and slipped a robe over his...ridiculously flimsy under garments. Regardless of what current fashion trends dictated, Alistair was really not a fan of them. He tip toed out of his bed room and down towards the kitchen. The cook, an older woman, with wide, round hips, and silvered hair trapped in a tight bun, was already baking bread for the morning and was startled at his appearance, "Uh, your majesty! You're up... early this morning. I meant to have breakfast ready for you and the Queen. I thought for sure you would be... well... um... sleeping in later... after all...last night was..." The woman, Cora...he was pretty sure her name was Cora, went scarlet and Alistair felt himself grin.

"What exactly?" He questioned teasingly, "Are you alright? Stove to hot? You're looking a bit red."

If anything she grew redder, "Your Majesty... honestly... I... please forgive me."

He shook his head, "Don't worry yourself. I'm just looking for a snack..." He began sifting through the pantry and she watched him, a confused expression on her face. She was not used to this new King. Cailan had been charming and kind to the servants, but he'd grown up in the palace and despite his gracious nature, he still acted with an awareness of their different stations.

King Alistair was a different story and none of the servants quite knew how to react to his teasing, familiar nature, "Your Majesty...there is some sweet bread on the third shelf."

"Hmm?" Alistair poked his head out, a cookie stuffed in his mouth, "Sw-bre-?" He swallowed the bite and grinned, "I love sweet bread."

Cora stifled a laugh, smiling despite herself, and turned back to the dough she was kneading on the table. He reminded her a little bit of her grandsons, but she would keep that to herself. Alistair exited the pantry and sat down at the work table the cooks and servants sometimes used as a lunch table. He began eating the bread, his expression momentarily serene.

"It was a beautiful wedding, your Majesty." She commented, glancing up from her work to discretely admire his handsome features.

"Yes..." He murmured, "If you like that sort of thing."

"Aw now, who doesn't like weddings? Dancing, fine food, vows of love, all the lovely clothing..."

"A bunch of overdressed vipers harping at one another. Drunken noblewoman getting a little too...er...frisky on the dance floor."

"Ah...Bann Elliar's wife..."

"Indeed." They both shared a companionable chuckle at the woman's expense.

"It's a shame the Hero of Ferelden couldn't make it..." She had heard rumors around the castle and servants about the King and the Gray Warden Elf, but she didn't put too much stock in them. Still...she wondered at his response and couldn't resist the chance to gauge his reaction.

Alistair shrugged, though his expression grew momentarily guarded, "A heroes duties never cease..." He answered, then his expression grew softer, tender even, "Though she should be returning soon."

"If...if I could be so bold, your Majesty..." She started softly, placing the dough aside and brushing her hands off on her apron.

"Speak..." He said, his expression serious, dark eyes watching her curiously.

"You'll have to learn to guard your expression better than that...people talk." Her tone was soft, motherly even, and lacked judgment of any kind.

Alistair stood, any traces of an appetite gone, "I...thank you for your candor." He said softly, his eyes downcast as he left the kitchen.

"My Lord." She said softly in acknowledgment, bowing her head at his departure.

Alistair returned to his chambers to find Anora wake and running a brush through her pale blond hair. She turned at his entrance and smiled slightly. She had been...almost too nice. Certainly she held some hostility for him, after all, he'd practically forced Neria to kill her father. He didn't trust her civility, she was to full of guile, too artful in her expressions and mannerisms. It made him miss Neria all the more, who's wide blue gaze left all she felt bare to the world. There was no subterfuge with Neria, she said what she meant and meant what she said. She grew up in the Circle, away from politicians, and while he knew that the Mages had their own battles, their own schemes amongst themselves, Neria had been a young mage when she'd left and not quite privy to such things. Her's had been a dutiful, scholarly existence, before Duncan had taken her from the Tower, and her innocence had been evident from the beginning.

"Alistair. I woke and you were...gone." Alistair had no clue what to make of her statement, nor how to read the expression on her face. She was almost more practiced at hiding emotion then Sten, though he wouldn't describe her expression as stoic, like that of the Qu'Nari. Instead it was more...masked.

"Yes. I was hungry...worked up an appetite and all..." He replied, by way of explanation.

She didn't blush at his comment (Neria would have blushed), but she did smile slightly, her eyes growing distant, "It runs in the family..."

Alistair's eyebrows rose, Wow...uncomfortable... he thought, before the meaning of words fully sunk in and he felt sad, "Do...you miss him?" Alistair asked softly, sitting on the bed across from her.

Anora put her brush down and turned in her seat to fully face him, the mask fell and the pain in her eyes was obvious. Alistair understood that pain well. Love lost. Love denied.

"Yes...I do." She said softly, "Think what you will of me...but I loved him."

"Yet you left...in Ostagar, you left..." Alistair couldn't stop the slight accusation that colored his tone. He didn't want to fight, but couldn't seem to stop himself from saying the words.

"A...good daughter is always mindful of her father's wishes. Dutiful."

"And what of a wife's duty? What of that?" Alistair knew his tone was becoming dangerously accusatory, the tendency to go "all self righteous" was one of his (probably many) faults. The one that Morrigan had so despised and sniped at him for and Neria had ignored and put up with.

"I was a daughter first..." She said softly, staring down at her hands, "...and Father was...a presence. A legend. A hero of the realm he..." She sighed, "You can't possibly understand. I did not know that he would retreat and when he did... What could I do? Die on the battlefield beside Cailan...? I had a duty to the people of Ferelden...I..." Her voice was hallow, but Alistair understood duty over love, perhaps better than anyone.

"I understand." He said softly, he did understand, at least partially. He would never forgive Loghain for Duncan's death, for Cailan's, but he did understand duty and knew that their deaths were not the fault of the woman before him. His wife.

She looked up at him, her keen gaze perceptive, "Yes, perhaps you do...I did love Cailan. I love him still...a part of me always will." A smile, slight, sad, "You look so very much like him...I hadn't noticed, at first...your hair is shorter and he always wore his so...dashingly long. He was magnetic...and everyone in the room was drawn to follow his lead. It was effortless...yet you, you always seemed so content to follow, but now..." Her voice broke slightly, "...now you remind me so very much of him...that it hurts."

Alistair felt something stab his conscience, he hadn't thought it possible to care for Anora, but he so hated to see a woman in distress. He knelt before her, taking her hands in his, "Anora...what can I do?"

"I want a child," She said softly, hopefully, "and...I want a chance."

"A chance?" He questioned, not understanding.

She gazed into his eyes, her expression soft and hopeful, "Yes... give us a chance. I believe I could grow to love you, Alistair...and you, me. Give us a chance."

His mouth opened slightly, confusion making his expression almost comical.

"I know that there is...something between you and the Warden, but we are wed now and I...I am your Queen. Not her. She is an impossibility...but I am here and asking for a chance..." Tears were shimmering in her eyes again. Alistair felt helpless and foolish in front of them. A chance? That she would even desire it was shocking to him. For all intents and purposes she had seemed to hate him, yet here she was, crying over lost love and begging for a child and a chance. He had promised himself to Neria... in his heart he longed for her. Fate had had different plans for him, it seemed, and duty had made this woman his wife. She was humbling herself to request this and could he really deny her a chance? Neria deserved better than to be the mistress of a King. She deserved better than to watch another woman bare and raise his children.

"I can...agree to those terms." He said softly, his heart feeling like a cold lump in his chest, sliding down to rest in the pit of his stomach. He was no great womanizer, breaker of hearts, no Zevran. He couldn't sleep with his wife and then get into the bed of his mistress, not when his wife cried before him and begged for a chance, for a child.

Anora through her arms around his neck, "Thank you...my lord." She whispered against his ear and he closed his eyes and embraced her, embraced his fate.

Beside his cheek, where he could not see, Anora's smile spoke of triumph and her eyes glittered with malice.


End file.
